


Eat Me

by MyHeartIsAHammer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, but it was too easy not to use, the title is more pornographic than the work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:45:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyHeartIsAHammer/pseuds/MyHeartIsAHammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out Derek is an amazing cook. Which is great, because Stiles loves to eat.</p>
<p>“Derek,” Stiles breathed, “it’s glistening. Look at how thick it is. It’s like a slow-flowing stream just slinking into all of the little nooks of my muffin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat Me

**Author's Note:**

> Checking off the food porn box on a trope bingo card I may or may not complete. This is both food as porn and food in porn.

“Oh my God.”

 

Stiles paused in the doorway of the kitchen and groaned at the sight of Derek, heat from the stove shimmering in the air in front of him, forearms flexing – obscenely, with no shirt to hide them - as he deftly rolled a lemon under the heel of his hand. Derek turned from the counter and glanced back at Stiles, one eyebrow arched.

 

“Are you actually wearing an apron? Are you actually in our kitchen shirtless and wearing an apron? Oh my God there are seven million fantasies running through my head right now. I might faint; passing out from joy and lust is a thing that could totally happen at this exact moment. Is this real life?”

 

Derek smirked and returned his attention to the stove: “take it easy, David, it’s just breakfast. No hallucinogenic involved.”

 

“OH MY GOD did you just understand a dated pop culture reference and respond to it?! While half naked, wearing a _Batman_ apron, AND making me breakfast because my ass is so sex sore???” Stiles dramatically clapped a hand to his chest and dropped into a seat at the table. “Maybe you should stop saying things before my heart explodes. It’s okay; I have plenty of fantasies where you don’t say anything. They mostly involve a lot of grunting and moaning and taking. Nothing this kitchen table hasn’t already seen so we should be fine.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows leeringly. “Turn the stove off and bring that glorious ass over this way.”

 

Derek snorted and shook his head, reaching for a whisk and squeezing half of the lemon into a saucepan. “You know I can’t walk away from a hollandaise, Stiles. It’ll break, and then what will I put over your Benedict? It would be tragic.”

 

Sighing, Stiles rose and ambled to the counter. “It’s entirely unfair to stand there like that, looking like some Greco Roman Martha Stewart – eugh, Martha Stewart, there goes that erection - while you spout off fancy food words. Now you just stop talking and keep facing that way while I stand here and put my hands on as many inappropriate places as I can get to.” Stiles moved in behind Derek, bracketing him against the counter top, nosing behind his ear, flicking his tongue lightly against the back of his neck, and pushing his hips into the round firmness of Derek’s ass.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“I can’t help it, Derek,” Stiles said matter-of-factly. “You know I love you for your dark and twisty mind, and your wolfish sense of noblesse, and your top secret adoration of British radio programs about small airlines. You’re not allowed to be irritable that I’m constantly distracted by notions of worshipping your body.” Stiles’ palms were under the apron skimming up and down Derek’s torso, fingertips dragging with the slightest phantom graze, while he alternated sucking on Derek’s earlobe and nipping the scruff of his neck. “I’d want to fuck you every second of the day even if you looked like Phyllis Diller, so allow me to enjoy the fact that you don’t,” Stiles husked, as his hands dipped under the waistband at the front of Derek’s pants, “and that your face and body are a fucking _perk_ to this relationship.”

 

Derek let go of the whisk and rounded on Stiles, grabbing his face in large warm hands and tonguing his mouth open with a greedy keen. Stiles whimpered, slipping his hands into the back of Derek’s flannel pajama pants, long elegant fingers tracing the muscle of Derek’s ass as he pulled Derek’s hips in line with his own. Stiles tasted of mint, and tea, and honey and Derek was well on his way to bliss when he snapped his head back and frowned. Stiles’ mouth was still moving, like a guppy, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Damn it, Stiles,” he laughed,  “I just want to make breakfast for us, enjoy this Sunday morning like normal people for once.” He strong-armed Stiles backwards to a chair and sat him down again at the table. “Stay. I’m almost done.”

 

“I am not the person in this relationship with canine chromosomes, Derek! You can’t ‘stay’ me!” Stiles made to stand with faux indignation and Derek glared at him. “ _Whatever_. I’m _choosing_ to sit here because I want to. Anyway, I had plans. I was planning on…” Stiles fumbled around at the random detritus that accumulated on their kitchen table ( _where did this shit come from?)_ and seized on a pizza flyer that had been stuck in their mailbox last week.

 

“Aha! I was _planning_ to sit here anyway and…make…a…list! A list of things! A list of **_oh my god_** a **LIST** of ways I want to integrate **food** into our sex life; that was **ALREADY MY PLAN** when I came downstairs, before you couldn’t keep your wanton hands off of me.”

 

Derek let out a long-suffering sigh and muttered “that sounds about right.”

 

Stiles grabbed a pen, licked the end of it musingly, made a terrible face sputtering “blech pen blech” and rested his chin in his hand, looking thoughtfully at the fridge and pointedly not at Derek.

 

After a few minutes he began scribbling on the paper, and in his best teacher’s voice declared “I begin:”

 

*  Cover your cock in honey and lick it off.

 

“Not honey,” Derek answered. “It takes forever to lick off; it’d stop being sexy really fast.”

 

Stiles jerked up and looked at Derek with a scandalized face. “You’ve licked honey off of someone else’s cock before?!?! Someone not me?!?”

 

“NO, idiot. I spend half my life in the woods, Stiles. Honey is a natural antibiotic and salve. Just because I heal quickly doesn’t mean the occasional burn or wound doesn’t benefit from some attending.”

 

“Oh my God, you’re Winnie the Pooh. You’re not actually patrolling the reserve at night; you’re secretly sticking your giant paws in beehives looking for honey, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m not the one trying to lick honey off of a cock, Stiles.”

 

“Right. Maple syrup, maybe. I’ll do some research. Carrying on.”

 

“The Kama Sutra brand makes an edible honey dust, I think, if you…”

 

“I SAID CARRYING ON; YOUR KNOWLEDGE OF SEX FOOD IS GOING TO MAKE ME INSECURE THANK YOU I SAID GOOD DAY SIR.”

 

Stiles returned to his thinking pose before jabbing his pen in the air with another “aha!”

 

*  Paint your abs, your delicious unholy not-of-this-world abs, with melted chocolate and lick it off.

 

“Are these all going to end in ‘lick it off,’ Stiles?”

 

“Of course they are, Derek, and if you’re about to tell me there are more ways to involve food in sexual play than just licking it off, kindly keep your snout shut, as I’d like to think I’m not entirely behind the eight-ball here, and your supreme knowledge and depraved sexual proclivities from the _Pre_ _Stiles_ _Era_ is in danger of severely harshing my presumed-sexual-prowess mellow.”

 

“There is no _Pre Stiles Era_. It was all just existing before then.”

 

“Stop it; don’t be wonderful when I’m being sarcastic yet charming.”

 

Derek snorted as Stiles continued.

 

*  Cover my torso in whipped cream and let you draw through it with your claws. And then lick it off.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“You really love whipped cream, Derek, and I really love wolf sex because I am the actual sexual deviant in this relationship. Which is saying a lot with all your instinctive wolf marking and scenting and knotting crap. These are just facts. Moving forward.”

 

*  Use –

 

“Hold that thought.” Derek tossed the apron onto the counter, grabbed one plate, one knife, and two forks, and sat down facing Stiles at the kitchen table. The english muffin was golden brown and crunchy, eggs expertly trimmed and resting on top of gently butter poached lobster (there is no Canadian bacon when you make breakfast for the man of your dreams), all draped in a warm yellow and satiny hollandaise. Derek knew how to put together a Capital-Letter God Damn Breakfast. “At least take a few bites while it’s all perfect and then you can go back to this nonsense.” He inclined his head toward Stiles, knife and fork at the ready to slide into the delicately poached eggs in front of them. “Are you listening?”

 

“It’s not nonsense, Derek, it’s perfectly normal, lots of couples do it and _oh my god look at that yolk_.”

 

Derek grinned as the knife sliced neatly into the center of one of the poached eggs and the yolk came oozing out; Stiles held the same sort of reverence for good food as he held for Derek’s cock. (Every implication and iteration of that fact was perfectly fine with Derek.) “I know” he smirked, pleased as always to do something that put that wide-eyed-in-awe look on Stiles’ face. He’d scoffed when Stiles had encouraged him to enroll in the culinary program at Beacon Hills Community College, and take his interest in food in a more tangible direction than just watching cooking shows all day and trying out things he’d liked on the pack, but his curiosity had eventually gotten the better of him and he’d spent one mostly carefree spring semester excelling in the courses. It still gave him a slightly uncomfortable warm feeling that no one had been surprised when he’d done well. He’d likely never fully get over the suspicion that tragedy was just around the corner, stalking him, but the last few years with Stiles and a unified pack had done wonders to tamp down the immediacy of that expectation. His belief in his own worth these days was light-years beyond what it had once been, and smiles like the one currently occupying Stiles’ face were the foundation of that belief.

 

“Derek,” Stiles breathed, “it’s _glistening_. Look at how thick it is. It’s like a slow-flowing stream just slinking into all of the little nooks of my muffin. _Jesus_ , it’s the picture definition of unctuous.”

 

Derek handed a fork to him and Stiles moaned lasciviously as he slid the first bite into his mouth.

 

Stiles closed his eyes and whimpered. “ _Ohhhhhhhhh my Godddddd_ , Derek. Derek it’s so good. Derek I can’t.”

 

Derek laughed and dug into the other side of their shared plate. He was pleased with the sauce, it was lemony and buttery (he’d had a tumultuous history with mother sauces) and he loved the way it coated his tongue like silk. The lobster was sweet and delicate, teetering right on the line of luxurious and too rich. Tarragon, Derek thought. Hollandaise was traditional, but next time he’d add tarragon and make it a béarnaise.

 

Stiles slipped another bite into his mouth and visibly pulsated. “Marry me,” he whispered, “and I will write epic love sonnets for you every day for the rest of my life.”

 

Derek laughed. “I thought we decided that awhile ago? When I made those figs stuffed with gorgonzola and the balsamic reduction on Valentine’s Day?”

 

“Derek, be quiet; I’m not talking to you. I’m having special time with this poached egg right now.”

 

Derek’s grin nearly split his face. Stiles had actually proposed over that plate of figs, jokingly, having no idea that Derek was waiting until the last bite of flourless chocolate cake was gone to sincerely ask the same question. Later in bed, wrapped around each other, Derek had quietly confessed that he’d expected to spend the rest of his life broken and homeless, until Stiles had fixed him and made himself Derek’s home. Stiles had cried as Derek kissed his tears, whispering that he’d never really believed someone besides his father would love him, let alone someone he loved back. Even now, Derek was sure there would never come a day when making Stiles happy didn’t light him up inside.

 

“I’m going to eat all of this before the puppies get here” Stiles said, another bite gone as he brazenly licked his fork while eyeing Derek. “They snooze, they lose. All the divine breakfast for Stiles today. Then I’m going to taunt and lord it over them until I fall into a food coma.”

 

“Stop calling them puppies.”

 

"The super awesome and amazing and unique lycanthropes, then. No, that’s just ridiculous; I like puppies."

 

“I called Erica and gave her strict instructions to spend the entire day as far from here as possible, under penalty of excommunication.”

 

Stiles chuckled and moved into Derek’s lap, settling his arms loosely around Derek’s neck, whiskey eyes glittering in the morning light and his smile dazzling. “The entire day, huh?”

 

Derek circled his arms around Stiles’ waist, pushed his face into his neck and kissed the pulse beating steadily on Stiles’ throat, murmuring “forever is starting to sound like a better idea.”

 

Stiles leaned down to rub his nose against Derek’s as Derek lifted his face. He closed his eyes and breathed “I love it when you make me breakfast.”


End file.
